There and Back Again
by Calim1
Summary: A simple trip to help out a friend drops both Grissom and Brass into a cauldron of weirdness. Entry for the CSIFO October Challenge 'A Killer Halloween'. (A part of the 'Happily Ever After' series.)


_This is my entry into the CSI Forever Online's Halloween Challenge - 'A Killer Halloween'. Whew! I almost didn't make it. I piffiled away 1 of the extra 2 weeks we were given doing I don't know what (not working on this story obviously) only to have to cram in all my rewrites and updates in a scant 3 days. I hope to learn something from all of this but, alas, I'm afraid I'll probably do it again.  
_

_So, onward then to the latest adventure with Grissom and Brass. This is a part of my 'Happily Ever After' series._

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**CSI – There and Back Again**

Susan Dietz (Calim11)

Rating: PG-13

Category: GG / JB / Halloween

Summary: A simple trip to help out a friend drops both Grissom and Brass into a cauldron of weirdness. Entry for the CSIFO October Challenge 'A Killer Halloween'. (A part of my 'Happily Ever After' series.)

_© October 2013_

_Feedback is appreciated_

_Disclaimer: The characters and general situations in this story are the property of CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer, however I reserve the rights to the specific details. It is not my intention to infringe upon their rights; this story is purely for the enjoyment of fans. Please do not redistribute in any form._

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_From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. _

_~~ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving, 1820_

* * *

"Don't worry, Gil," Jim Brass said as he grabbed a bag out of the overhead. "I'll have you back at the lab on Halloween just like always."

"You'd better," Grissom grumbled taking the bag handed him. "You know there's always something weird that happens and . . ."

"I know how you love that," he finished with a grin. "Did it ever occur to you that this little soiree of mine might just be weirder?"

"Well, your friend was pretty vague."

"He's a cop. All of us are vague."

Grissom puzzled a moment then nodded. "True."

"Besides," he began leading the way off the plane, "you love vague. It means all your brain cells will be active trying to figure out whatever vagueness we find and that makes you a happy camper."

Grissom tried to hide a grin as they walked onto the concourse. "Well, I do love conundrums."

"Yes you do," Brass answered as he headed over to the Hertz counter.

"And coffee," he heard behind him, turning to find Grissom heading toward Starbucks.

Shaking his head, Brass gave his name to the guy at the counter, signed a few forms and grabbed the car keys, taking the offered coffee as Grissom approached.

"We've got wheels. Let us get at them weird thangs."

CSICSICSI

"Really?"

Brass looked over at Grissom and raised a brow at the frustrated look on his face.

"You're kidding me right? Damn," he said, shaking his head in disgust. "This isn't funny, Catherine. No, it isn't. Bye to you, too."

"What's wrong?" Brass asked, splitting his attention between friend and road.

"Oh, nothing," came the sarcastic reply. "Just a disembodied hand with 'I didn't kill him' carved in its skin."

"Wow, that sounds cool."

"Yeah, ya think? And I'm not there."

"Isn't that like the third call?"

Grissom held up three fingers and started counting off. "One - they found a real person hanging in a Halloween display in Henderson; two - a skeleton in a costume shop with human flesh still clinging to various body parts; and now three, this hand that looks like it tried to claw its way out of somewhere because all the fingernails are gone. Oh, and it's wearing a wedding ring," he finished throwing his hands up in the air and growling out his dismay at the closed window.

"Sorry," came Brass's soft voice as he tried not to grin.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, Jim. I'm not very good company."

"I know you like to work Halloween cause of all that weird stuff but I thought, maybe, we could see weird stuff out of state. Get away for a while. Spread your genius around."

He could feel Grissom's eyes boring into him and winced. Oops. He wasn't supposed to say anything but, well, he'd never been known to keep stuff from him.

"Okay, I could pretend that I don't know you're staring at me or that you can't read the word bubble above my head," he began in explanation, "or that you don't know me well enough to know that there might be another reason I asked you to come with me on this little trip." Silence still reigned. Brass sighed. "Sara asked me to get you out of town."

"Why?"

"Apparently you've been . . . morose."

"Morose."

"Yeah." Brass paused, debated and continued. "_I_ thought you were just being crabby so I looked up morose just to clarify." He paused again. "And you are." Grissom glared at him. "Sullen, sulky, gloomy, ill-tempered, surly, cantankerous, churlish . . ."

"I can't help it," he finally admitted.

"I _knew_ that churlish would get you." He smiled. Grissom didn't. He cleared his throat. "It's not Sara is it? Are you two . . ."

"No," came the quick answer, a slight smile appearing. "Lately she's the only light in a darkening room."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Brass waited for more but there was only silence. He couldn't stand it. "Tell me what's wrong."

Grissom shrugged. "It's stupid."

"Gil."

"Okay, not stupid but it makes me sound like a . . . well, like a ghoul."

Brass almost laughed, almost, but stopped himself just in time. "It's the right time of year," he added with a wry grin only to receive another glare. "Sorry." Silence, once again, permeated the interior until he pulled the car off the road, put the parking brake on and turned toward him. "Okay, Gil, out with it."

Rubbing his forehead, Grissom looked everywhere but at Brass. "I'm . . . I want . . ." He stalled and stared out the window.

"I'm really good at charades if that's easier," he quipped only to get a third glare. He held up his hands in resignation.

"I need a good murder," Grissom finally said in a voice so low Brass has to lean over to hear it.

"A good what?"

"Murder."

"Murder?"

"Yessssss," he moaned. "Go ahead. Make fun. Tell me I need a shrink. Go on."

Brass chuckled. "You don't need a shrink."

"Well, I need something, anything besides your run-of-the-mill husband kills wife because she's cheating; wife kills husband because she wants the insurance; man kills co-worker because he got his promotion." He grimaced. "I need a serial."

"No!" Brass quickly blurted out waving a finger at him.

"I know. I know," he answered holding up a hand. "Sara's forbidden me from even walking past the Baldwin file."

"Good. You do not need to get lost on that particular whirlwind."

"But I _need_ something, Jim," he whined, "something to get my juices flowing, my brain firing. I feel like I'm stagnating under paperwork and unimaginative killers."

"Well, then, perhaps we'll find something where we're going. Odd can be defined as many things. Strange, peculiar, weird, abnormal, mysterious."

Grissom glanced at him. "Did you look that up, too?"

Brass laughed. "Actually, those are all definitions I've heard about you and, yet, here I am driving with you to a small town where who knows what's waiting for us. It could be someone with imagination."

"Or same old, same old," he whined.

Brass rolled his eyes. "Geez, Gil, you're such a downer."

"I know," he sighed before a small grin touched the corner of his mouth.

CSICSICSI

"Did you rent a Gremlin or something?" Grissom groused as their rent-a-car rolled to a grumbling stop on the side of a very empty and foggy road.

"I've a full tank of gas; it's a Camry not a Gremlin and I'm wondering if this might be one of the 'weird' things my friend was speaking of."

"Hmmph," was the only sound Grissom made as he peered out the window into a thick stand of trees popping in and out of the fog.

"And my phone's not working either," Brass commented. "So, we walk."

Before Grissom could say a word, Brass was out the door pulling their bags from the trunk. Taking his, he sighed. "And how do you know how far it is?" Grissom asked zipping up his jacket against the damp air.

Brass smirked then pointed up at the very nice sign in front of them – Sleepy Hollow 2 miles.

"You planned that didn't you?"

"Well . . ." he answered with a shrug. "Standing around won't get us there any quicker!" Brass called over his shoulder. "Let's get going."

CSICSICSI

"This doesn't look like it did the last time I saw it," Brass mused as both he and Grissom did a 360, taking in the sights of the main street.

Darkness and heavy patches of fog did nothing to hide the tall aged buildings that appeared to lean slightly, this way and that, to keep each other standing. Candles flickering behind beveled glass sat in appropriately placed windows suggesting eyes, looked out at them as they passed. Menacing trees occupied various yards telling of devastating fire, the knotted trunks looking like gaping mouths waiting to swallow some oblivious traveler. Jack-O-Lanterns stood on the front posts of a number of wrought iron fences, their grimaces giving the impression of ghoulish desires, ever changing as they walked past, making them keep to the middle of the street.

"Something's not right here," Brass mumbled, hand on his gun still in its holster.

"_That_ could be classified as the understatement of the year," Grissom quietly added, sticking close to his friend. "This isn't how it usually looks?"

"No. This should be the main street. True, the buildings here are quaint but not in a 'Revolutionary' way."

"Have you ever been here for Halloween? Maybe they fix it all up for the tourists."

"Their website doesn't show anything like this," Brass answered seeing something up ahead. "What's that?" He squinted. "Is that a horse?"

Grissom leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, seeing an indistinct shape that shifted in and out of focus as the fog moved. "Not sure what that . . ." A loud neigh drowned him out and he cleared his throat. "Ah, that _is_ a horse."

"Good call, Sherlock," Brass gave back as he slowed his steps.

The fog thinned a bit to show the horse bobbing its head up and down then looking toward a door on the other side of the hitching post when raised voices sounded.

"We're saved," Grissom stated with a smile as Brass shook his head and walked past the horse to push open the door.

A heat and smoke wave hit them when they stepped inside bringing deep coughs to both. Soon they were being slapped on their backs and glasses of something were stuffed in their hands as they were dropped into waiting chairs.

"Dr. Grissom, sir, we were expecting you much earlier," came a thick gravelly voice.

Between coughs, he looked up into a mawkish faced gentleman of middle age complete with a double chin, a white wig slightly askew and a spare tire middle. He had no idea who he was.

"Torbin Phane, mayor of this small village," he explained, dabbing at his face with a lacy handkerchief. "We were thinking you and Inspector Brass weren't coming perhaps believing our request false in its earnestness. We assure you, sirs, there is nothing false about what rides through the dark here."

"I beg your pardon?" Grissom coughed out, trying to breathe and wrap his head around the use of his name by someone he didn't know.

"It's a witch's moon, sir," came another voice, "and you are very brave to venture out into this bedeviled night."

"Or insane," came from a tall angular man with only enough hair to make a nubbin of a ponytail. "No sane man walks at this hour."

"Well our car . . ." Grissom tried.

"You should've waited 'til morning, man," came at him from the crowd, "unless you don't value your lives."

Heads nodded and a grumbled agreement followed.

"I think there's . . ." Brass attempted as he wiped at his watery eyes.

"It would've afforded you some safety at least since he only walks at night," came another voice, high-pitched and nervous, from near the tables to their left.

Grissom glanced at Brass who merely shrugged then downed the drink in his hand. Letting out a holler, he stomped his foot twice then slapped his chest before coughing some more.

"Woohoo!" came next as he gave himself a slight shake.

"Are you all right, Inspector?" asked the man standing near Brass' shoulder.

"I'm fine," came out as a wheeze. "Fine." He extended his glass. "I'll have another."

"Of course, sir."

And the man was off leaving Brass to catch his breath as Grissom leaned in.

"I believe this would count as odd," he whispered taking a whiff of his own glass.

"Why do you say that?" Brass managed taking the proffered refill with a nod and a grin toward the man.

"Well, for starters they called me Dr. Grissom and you Inspector not Detective."

"Well, that's who we are," he answered before sipping his drink this time, wincing slightly as it burned down his throat. "Man, that'd wake the dead. What is this?"

"A Rattle Skull, sir," said the young man.

Brass frowned. "Rat . . ."

"Rattle Skull. Dark rum, brandy, porter, lime juice – when we have it – nutmeg on top. It's recommended you lie down after having one," he finished with a serious look.

"Sound advice," he agreed taking another sip.

"Do you see what they're wearing?" Grissom interrupted when the young man stepped away.

Brass did just that noting the frock coats and waistcoats upon the gentlemen around them and the fact that all their hair was pulled back into ponytails of various lengths. There wasn't a face hair in sight except for Grissom but no one seemed to notice. In fact, no one seemed to notice their clothes were not in style either.

"I do," he answered.

"And you find nothing odd about it?"

He grinned, took a deep breath and drained his glass, letting out a lesser cough and only one foot stomp this time before slapping Grissom's shoulder.

"All I can say is you wanted something different," he said in a wheezy voice then held out his hands to encompass the room. "Here it is."

Before Grissom could respond the mayor sidled up to them. "Are you two all right? The devil's breath hasn't touched you has it?"

"Fear not, my good friend," Brass began in a much stronger dramatic voice. "It is merely the chill of the evening and the lateness of the hour that has put us into such a state."

"Then drink the chill away," he pushed with a slight grin. "It's why we're all in here instead of out there where he might find us."

Grissom furrowed his brow. "He?"

Phane leaned in close. "You know. The one who haunts the valley," he whispered. Grissom looked puzzled and Brass just shrugged.

"The Hessian," came another whisper, this one close to their ears soon followed by a blast of 'shushes' sent out from the gathered.

"We do not speak his name for fear of retribution," Phane explained.

"Aye, Noel Bumbersnad made light of the man losing his head to a cannon ball and lost his own afore the sun rose a few hours later," came another statement from a squat bushy headed man whose brocaded vest was mis-buttoned. "Made us all tread lightly for a long while."

"Have any of you seen him?" Grissom asked, handing off his drink to Brass.

A series of head shakes and eyes cast in other directions met his gaze until a hand rose and a short redheaded man stepped forward.

"Peter Argeterry," he introduced with a slight nod. "_I've_ seen him, Dr. Grissom, sir, the likes I've not seen afore nor wish ta see again. It was hideous he was. Made my insides turn ta ice and my feet freeze ta the ground. Fortunately, he had other quarry hence the reason I stand here now. I never want ta see it again and ponder at your willingness ta tread the same path as that devil's spawn."

"It's our job, kind sir," Brass interjected with a serious look. "And one we don't take lightly. It would please us greatly if someone would show us where this devil resides so that we may gather clues to his possible whereabouts this evening."

"It's the old Dutch church at the end o' the lane," another man with a peg leg informed them. "It's where we placed the hat o' Mr. Crane since that's all we found o' 'im. Walk softly as ye go, gentlemen, or we might be diggin' yer graves afore morn."

Heads bobbed in acknowledgment and crosses were made.

"Mr. Crane?" Brass innocently asked.

"Aye, Ichabod Crane, our schoolmaster," Argeterry answered. "Disappeared he did while riding home in the dark. His horse made his way home without a saddle and a broken bridle and his master, Hans Van Ripper, wondered what had made Mr. Crane run his horse near ta death and was ta take issue with him but he couldn't be found."

"They found the saddle," another added, "on the road to the church. Trampled it was."

"We found his hat," Phane added. "Found it lying there as if Mr. Crane had laid it down to take a rest."

"And don't forget the pumpkin," a balding man with a twitchy eye added. "Shattered like someone had thrown it."

"You searched the brook, correct?" Grissom asked. "The section where the water runs deep and black?" That question drew a few startled looks and he realized his error in quoting from the story itself. "Ah . . ."

"How did you know there was a deep section of the brook?" Phane asked, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed.

"We were given a map of the area," Brass quickly broke in, "and noticed there's a brook of some size."

"And I surmised the necessity for a bridge might be a deep or treacherous section," Grissom popped in, pleased with his rapid recovery.

"Well, yes, of course," Phane acquiesced.

"And it would make sense that if a member of your town disappeared, the brook would be a good place to look. It happens all the time in the city," Brass said with a nonchalant wave of his hand, nudging Grissom from behind.

"That is correct," he began with a nod. "The statistics for people losing their lives in any waterway is rather large. Most, however, are suicides."

"Oh, my," came from many of the men as they crossed themselves again.

Grissom glanced at Brass and merely shrugged at his amused expression.

"Mr. Crane did _not_ take his own life," Phane emphatically stated. "He was a committed scholar and planning on making our village his home."

"And he was _attempting _to court Miss Van Tassell." Titters arose.

"Brom wouldn't hear of that."

"Well, Brom has money and a title and . . ."

"He doesn't look like a gourd."

Laughter ensued only to be muted by a disgusted look from Phane.

"Please forgive me, Mayor," Grissom added as the jovial sounds died down. "It was not my intent to imply that Mr. Crane took his own life. I was merely stating statistics."

"Which is what the good doctor does, my friends," Brass jumped in. "He is, after all, a dedicated scholar himself."

"Yes. Your record is impressive, Dr. Grissom," Phane said apparently accepting the apology. "And so is your work with the Inspector which is why you were asked to come. We appreciate your service."

"And what exactly do you expect us to do once we find him?" Brass asked.

Phane frowned. "The missive sent to you was concise," he reminded him.

"Ah," Brass stumbled then nodded. "Yes, yes it was but we'd prefer to hear it directly from you."

"Whatever for?

"Because," Grissom hopped in, "there are things that cannot be written in a letter for fear of prying eyes." Phane began to nod. "So, it would prove quite helpful to our investigation if we could hear the whole story directly from you."

A series of yeas and nods followed as Grissom smirked at Brass' raised eyebrow.

"Well then," Phane said, tugging at his too tight vest as he puffed out his chest. "I am honored to be of help."

Grissom grinned at him then at Brass who sat back down then waved his fingers to the bar man.

"It's been some months since we lost Mr. Crane," Phane began. "Silence ensued for a spell and we thought all had returned to the quiet of before. Perhaps the devil had gotten what he was after and would leave the rest of us alone. Alas, it was not to be.

"Not seven days ago Mr. Percy Brandlesmythe was discovered in his barn, his head separated from the rest of him. Dr. Thyme suggested he'd fallen from the loft but nowhere was there an apparatus that could've dismantled him so. We all knew what had happened, we all knew Mr. Brandlesmythe scoffed at the idea that Mr. Crane had been taken, calling the horseman a figment of everyone's deranged imagination. He was dead four hours later. Dead and covered in maggots." He cringed at the thought.

Grissom frowned. "Maggots don't arrive at a body for eight to 20 hours depending on the weather. Are you sure it was four hours?"

"'Twas I that saw the body, Dr. Grissom," a blocky black-haired man announced as he stepped from the crowd. "I can verify that time. I am Dr. Phiddeous Thyme, at your service."

"Dr. Thyme, please forgive the questions but how do you know the time of death so precisely?" Grissom asked.

"Gil," Brass whispered. "Perhaps we shouldn't question such things."

"Maggots don't spontaneously appear, Jim," Grissom insistently whispered back.

"Then it is a surety that the horseman was the perpetrator!" a reed thin young man called out from behind Brass making him jump. Voices rose, shouting began.

"We should all just take a breath," Brass announced, rising from his chair and holding out his arms, trying to quell the rising panic.

"I am a learned man myself, Dr. Grissom," Thyme continued loudly over the crowd, "and I've been doctoring far longer than you've been breathing. I know that maggots do not spontaneously generate as was discovered by Francesco Redi in 1664."

Grissom's brow rose. "A masterful work his 'Esperienze Intorno alla Generazione deglinsetti'."

Thyme's eyes widened then he began to nod. "Yes. Truly a man out of time."

Brass looked between the two as they nodded sagely. Sighing, he tapped Grissom on the shoulder and cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, ah, yes, about the maggots, Doctor."

"Hmm? Oh, well," he started, clearing his throat. "Your question is valid, Dr. Grissom. 'Twas Miss Van Tassell herself who spoke of seeing Brandlesmythe four hours before he was found. It explained the time of death. However, it did not explain the maggots. But we are dealing with the ghostly realm . . ." Slowly shaking his head, more words failed him.

"What followed was a thing of nightmares," Phane picked up where he'd left off, taking the glass handed him and downing it quickly before wiping his mouth with the cuff of his shirt. "Each night since then someone has perished. And each night it's become more grisly than the one before. Other body parts now decorate the ground along with the unfortunate's head.

"As each sun rises we fear the coming of evening and what it will bring. We've even gone so far as to dispatch our families to relatives far from here to keep them safe. It is the Devil who's taken up residence in our village. We believe only the two of you will rout him and return to us the peace of mind that has so resolutely abandoned us. It is a disgusting business, these murders, and we want it stopped. Pray tell, can you help us? We are sliding into an abyss and we need someone to throw us a rope."

Brass grabbed the drink out of the barman's hand and downed it, breath leaving him quickly, eyes crossing a bit. Grissom diligently smacked him on the back as he began to cough.

"Could I have some water please?"

CSICSICSI

"What the _hell_ is going on?!" Brass loudly asked of Grissom as the two made their way toward Dr. Thyme's office, complete with muskets and a lantern.

"You seemed to be carrying on like you knew."

"Well, I don't," he answered in a miffed tone. "I figure we're either dead or unconscious somewhere. In the car. Probably ran it off the road in my haste to get an answer from _you_." Brass glared at him then narrowed his eyes. "Why are you smirking?"

"Because, while I might agree with you that we're unconscious somewhere and it's odd that we would be sharing the same dream, I plan on enjoying myself."

"Enjoying yourself?!"

"Yeah. This is what would be called a 'what happened next' story in the fan fiction world," he explained as if it all made sense.

"What the hell is fan fiction?"

"Don't you read?" he said with a puzzled frown.

"Dick Francis, John Grisham, Nelson DeMille."

"Mysteries," Grissom nodded.

"Detective. Mysteries."

Grissom smiled. "Fan fiction is taking existing characters from television, movies, comic books and writing new stories around them."

"And you read that stuff?" he asked, surprised despite himself.

Grissom nodded. "Some of it's pretty good."

"And here I thought all you read was bug stuff."

"There's more to the literary world than bug stuff, Jim."

"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, placing a hand on his chest. "This _is_ a dream."

Pursing his lips, Grissom tried to ignore him. "Look. We're here. We're about to see a cut up body. We have muskets. There's a headless horseman rampaging. And you've managed to break the churlish spell I've been under. You've achieved what you set out to do . . . or what Sara wanted you to do. You should be happy. I know I am."

Brass' mouth dropped open, he stammered a bit, growled a few times then began to smile. "Okay, Dr. Grissom, I suppose you know this story backwards and forwards. What's next?"

"I know the _original_ story," he pointed out. "That stops after Ichabod disappears. Since this is a continuation," he said with a shrug, "anything goes."

"That's not very helpful."

"For now we'll head to Dr. Thyme's place, then the graveyard, poke around and treat this like any other case."

"And what, exactly, are we looking for?" Brass asked.

"Well, I always thought the horseman was looking for his head. Maybe, if we hand it off to him, he'll leave these poor folks alone."

"Or go after Lady Van Tassel who deserved it."

"Ah, you've seen the Tim Burton film."

"Hasn't everyone?"

Grissom smiled. "Or we could hide, wait for the horseman to ride in, and follow him to where he sleeps." Brass sighed and grumbled some more. "Hey, you should be happy," he began then patted his musket. "I'm armed."

"Not only does this place have a crazed serial killer on the loose but miracles happen as well. Oddness _is _a foot." Shaking his head, Brass hefted his own musket to his shoulder. "Okay, okay. I'll play along."

"Good. Let's . . ."

A loud crash and high pitched screech sounded off to their right and, without much hesitation, they both took off down the street making a beeline for the solitary house of Dr. Thyme nearly hidden behind a stooped knotted tree. They'd barely touched the first step of the porch when a very large gun barrel appeared through the door.

"Who goes there?!" came a loud high-pitched voice.

"Friends!" Brass stammered out. "Friends of Dr. Thyme. He asked us to come look at Mr. Somerset."

"Inspector?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, thank goodness." The gun disappeared and the door flew back, a long fingered hand grabbing hold of Brass and dragging him inside. Grissom slipped in behind him. "We've been waiting for you and . . . Dr. Grissom?"

"Yes?" His hand was immediately grabbed and shaken.

"I've studied all your papers. You are a genius and I hope to follow in your footsteps. It is an honor, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. . . ." he answered with a grin promoting an eye roll from Brass.

"Arbottom. Reginald Arbottom," he nervously replied, still shaking Grissom's hand. "I'm Dr. Thyme's assistant. He asked me to wait here."

Brass leaned forward. "That's why we're here, Reginald." Green eyes shifted to him. "Do you have a body for us? Tick-tock. Time's a-wastin'."

"Oh," he said, dropping Grissom's hand, turning a bit red in the cheek. "Yes, of course. Right this way." He hurried out of the room, leaving the two to stare after him.

"I like that young man," Grissom said with a half grin.

"Are you sure your hand's all right? Do I need to carry the lantern for you, Dr. Grissom?"

Giving Brass a look, he handed him the lantern. "Why thank you, Inspector."

"After you, _Doctor_," Brass stated with great aplomb.

"Dr. Grissom!" came the call and the two men followed the voice until they found Thyme's surgery tucked into the back half of the house.

Leaning his musket against the cabinet, Grissom zeroed in on the body, or what was left of it, wondering how hot the blade was that chopped off the man's head, arms and legs.

"Walcott Somerset," Arbottom intoned, "once a member of President Washington's Continental Army, was found quite dead on his porch." He leaned in close. "There was no blood present," he whispered.

"Then the porch wasn't the crime scene," Brass stated.

"Or the temperature used to cauterize these wounds was well over 600 degrees," Grissom stated. "Maybe even closer to 1000."

"How is that possible?" Arbottom asked, a bit of color draining from his cheeks.

"There are many devices like the electro magnetic . . ."

"Electro?"

"Yes, it's . . ." Looking up into the very puzzled and slightly alarmed face of Arbottom, Grissom quickly backtracked. "Ah, from Dr. Franklin's work with electricity." It sounded alien even to his own ears. "It's all theoretical. Rumors, really. Do you still have any of the maggots?" He gave Arbottom a smile that was probably rictus in nature but it's all he had.

"Yes. Dr. Thyme asked me to save some for you."

Picking up a scalpel, Grissom leaned over the unfortunate torso while Arbottom searched through the crowded desk behind him.

"So, does this look like the work of our resident maniac?" Brass whispered watching Grissom scrape off part of a skin flap, pick up a magnifying lens and peer at it.

"You have to ask?" was the only answer he received.

"Guess not."

Stepping away, he took a gander at the cramped quarters grimacing at the sight of what looked like medieval torture devices sitting on Thyme's shelves and wondered how anyone remained intact. Well, except for poor Mr. Somerset.

Moving toward a cabinet holding various sized bottles of tinctures and pharmaceuticals, he squinted at some of the names and uses before his wandering eye caught sight of a very large wrench-like instrument hanging on the wall. Deciding the view out the window next to it was far better than losing his lunch eaten so long ago, he gazed through the curtain and froze.

"Ah, Gil."

"What?" Grissom absently answered pointing toward something behind Arbottom who hastily grabbed it.

"Do horses have red eyes?" came the question.

Grissom raised a brow. "Pinkish or very light blue eyes. Not red," he answered taking a lancet from Arbottom. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Except I'm looking at one now."

Frowning, Grissom moved to stand next to him, Arbottom leaning in behind, all three gazing through the curtain. Standing a few feet away was a pure white horse tacked out in a black saddle and bridle, now ground-tied near the stooped knotted tree. It pawed the ground then let out a fingernail scraping a blackboard sounding whinny right before training its red-eyed gaze on them.

"IT'S HIM!" Arbottom spat out, hands vigorously crossing himself as he stumbled back.

"This is bad, isn't it, Gil?" Brass asked of his friend.

"Ah . . ."

"HE'S HERE!" With that, Arbottom raced from the room only to return moments later with his very large musket.

Grabbing hold, Grissom yanked Brass out of the way as the young man raced toward them.

"BACK TO HELL WITH YOU, YOU DEVIL!" Arbottom shouted then fired, the blast resonating through the room as the ball plowed through the curtain and the glass behind. A decidedly louder screech echoed around them.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Brass shouted as he backed away just as the door was cleaved in half by a glowing red blade.

"Reginald! Run!" Grissom yelled to the young man who was attempting to reload his weapon.

"I'll not let that evil spirit ruin this town!" he yelled. "I'm not afraid. Not anymore."

"You should be," Brass stated making tracks out of the room only to stop short when he realized he was alone. "Christ!"

Hurrying back, he found Grissom at the edge of the doorway gaping at the figure working its way through the damaged door and lost himself to the sight as well.

It was a man - a headless man - standing a good 6'2" decked out in a uniform that could be British, as in Revolutionary War British. The broadax he carried glowed at the edges and, despite no eyes to guide him, he managed a beeline for Arbottom who still worked frantically to reload.

Without a second thought, Brass grabbed both Grissom and Arbottom and dragged them from the room.

"No!" the young man argued, fighting against the grip. "I shall be the savior of our village. Let me go!"

"You can't win against that!" Brass pointed out realizing he'd have to let go of one of his charges to get the front door open. Arbottom gave him an out, breaking away and faithfully running back toward the surgery. "Come on, Gil."

"But . . ."

"No buts just out!"

Dragging Grissom through the door and out into the night, they slid to a stop at the sound of a musket firing. A singing sound sliced through the night, broken only by the shattering of glass as Arbottom's head popped out the side window, rolling to a stop in near them. Looking up, they caught the 'eye' of the horseman and gulped.

"Time to go," Brass urged breaking the spell.

"Don't have to tell me twice."

And off they ran, muskets and lantern forgotten, both pleased to see that the fog had returned, hoping it would hide their escape. A loud whinny and the clopping of hooves behind them put that happy thought to rest.

"The church!" Grissom yelled, pointing toward the hazy outline of a spire on the knoll to their right.

Racing across the bridge that spanned the deepest dark of the brook, they hurried past a dank and creepy graveyard without a second glance and plowed through the church's door. Slamming it shut, they leaned heavily against it, panting for much needed air.

"You do know how ridiculous this all is, don't you?" Brass asked after a spell. "And that we're dreaming so this guy with the ax can't really hurt us. Right?"

"Of course," Grissom answered pushing away from the door to head toward the rickety pulpit under the stained glass window.

"So can't we just hang out here, catch our breath, bang our heads against the wall in hopes of waking ourselves up?"

"Probably," came the distracted answer.

Brass narrowed his eyes and watched. "What are you doing?"

"According to the story, the horseman always returns here as the sun is coming up. I always figured his head must've been here." Eyeing the different items on the small dais, he started with the small curio off to the side. "This led me to think if we gave it back to him, perhaps he'd leave everyone alone."

"That seems too easy," Brass remarked, watching as Grissom open and closed drawers on the curio then moved toward the large tapestry on the wall. "Nothing is that easy."

"Aha!" he heard as Grissom pulled out a small leather wrapped box from behind the tapestry.

"Aha?" Brass repeated, stepping away from the door to see what his friend had found.

"It seemed like the appropriate thing to say," he answered with a shrug before grabbing a candlestick and striking the rusted lock. He smiled when it fell apart. Lifting the lid an old piece of parchment popped up. Carefully picking it up, he unfolded it.

"What does it say?" Brass pushed when Grissom moved to stand under a lit candle. "Are we saved? Does it tell where the head is? Is it a coupon for Starbucks?"

"Papa John's," he answered with a wry grin, amused at Brass' frown. "Ah," he began then raised his eyebrows. "Oh."

"What?"

"The head is located in the cabinet I didn't check."

"You're kidding?" he asked leaning in as Grissom shook his head.

"Nope. Second drawer on the left. I wish all our cases were this easy."

"No you don't," Brass said as he hurried to the cabinet and pulled open the ornate outer door. "You'd be bored to tears."

Easing open the drawer, inside rested what vaguely looked like a cage draped with a thick piece of cloth that covered up most of the greenish-blue glow emanating out from under it. Deciding he didn't really want to know where what that glow was, he picked it up and headed back to Grissom who hadn't moved from beneath the candle.

"I've got it. What's the matter?" he asked noting the familiar puzzled frown.

"That was too easy."

"Why look a gift horse in the mouth," Brass said with a chuckle as a familiar and very close screeching neigh echoed around the building causing them to quickly duck behind the spindly pulpit.

"You _had_ to help a friend," Grissom sighed, chewing on his bottom lip.

"That sounded churlish to me."

"It's going to sound a lot worse in a minute."

The neigh sounded again making them flinch.

"Well?" Brass impatiently asked.

Grissom looked at him. "Well, what?"

"What do we do now?" Brass urgently whispered.

"I don't know."

"Don't say things like that, Gil. My heart won't take it." Grissom glared. "Then what happens in the story?"

"Ichabod ran for his life . . . and was never seen again."

"You're a real downer, you know that?"

Grissom shrugged. "We could throw his head at him."

"And make him crankier than he already is?" Brass said.

"Well, what the hell do _you_ suggest?!"

The sliding sound of a horse's hooves on stone reverberated in the church and they jumped to their feet and stared at the door. Moments later they were leaning against it.

"You do know this is a bad idea," Brass stated, trying not to hear the sounds of booted feet walking toward them.

"Yeah, I know," Grissom answered as the singing of something swinging through the air met their ears. They barely managed to leap out of the way before the blade crashed into and through the door.

"You know this is one of the reasons we keep you away from serial killers," Brass quipped noticing the blade seemed stuck in the thick wood.

"Now you tell me," Grissom replied as they helped each other to their feet. "Leave it here," he ordered pointing to the man's head still in Brass' grasp.

Leaving it near the door, they sent one last look behind them to see the blade work its way loose. They didn't wait for anything else. Sprinting out the back and into the damp night, a chillingly hideous squawking laugh erupted making them turn. A greenish-blue glow shone out the church windows then slowly faded away just before the horseman stepped into the night, his white skull slowly disappearing beneath tissue and muscle and skin. By the time hair was sprouting on its head, the two men were long gone, running hell bent through the woods with no idea where they were going.

CSICSICSI

Surprised when they'd stepped into a fog-free patch of air, it was smoke rising in a straight column that caught their eye and brought them to a wheezing stop with hands on knees trying to catch their breath.

"Smoke," Brass rasped.

"Could be . . . a house," Grissom surmised, stumbling on ahead.

It was the sound of crows cawing that slowed Brass's steps as he followed behind. It was the hint of charred flesh wafting past his face that brought Grissom to a halt.

"Ah, Jim?"

Brass shushed him, pointing toward a fearful looking tree not ten yards away. Grissom squinted. There was something in the tree besides the crows, something white hanging from a limb.

"It's a sign," Grissom said.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"'This witch aided the horseman'."

"What witch?"

Grissom looked up at the raucous sounds of more crows alighting in the tree as he trudged past only to stop at the sight of burned remains hanging from a stake. "That witch."

"A superstitious lot, these Revolutionaries," Brass commented as he came up next to him.

"This was after the Salem witch trials when people accused everyone of being a witch. I'm glad I didn't live then. I probably would've been pressed to death for my heretical scientific views."

"Me, too, for my un-puritanical thinking. I like the voluptuous wenches in their barmaid outfits. Sue me." He grinned. "Come on. There's nothing we can do."

Grissom nodded and started after Brass only to stop short. "Look," he said pointing back toward the body.

The smoke trail grew thicker then began to swirl, wrapping itself about the stake and the body, tendrils reaching out to pluck the sign from the tree. The crows took flight and, as they left, so did the smoke leaving nothing behind but that fearful tree.

"Tell me you just saw that," Grissom requested.

"Ah, let's go," he answered grabbing hold of his friend's arm and pulling him toward the woods.

"You saw that, right?" Grissom repeated.

"Yeah, don't remind me. Come on."

Racing into the woods, the two slipped and tripped over wet grass and downed branches, leaving them both soaked and muddy before they'd gone ten feet. Dropping on his knee, Grissom grabbed the nearest tree to heft himself up when a familiar singing came out of nowhere and the glowing blade slid through the dark.

"Shit!" Grissom spat as he fell, staring up at the no longer headless horseman towering over him. "Why are you doing this?!" he shouted up at the man. "You have your head back."

All he got in return was a wide sinister smile full of crooked teeth and the ever present twirling of his ax. A laugh began, deep as if from the bowels of the earth, making every bone in his body rattle, every organ quiver and he knew this was it. He would end his life without a head.

Bummer.

But then three loud blasts broke up that disturbing sound and the horseman stumbled forward to collapse into a heap inches from him.

"Come on, Gil," Brass yelled pulling his friend to his feet.

"You know you can't kill a ghost with bullets," he reminded Brass as they began to run.

"I've never known a ghost to be able to cut off people's heads."

"You've got a point," said Grissom.

"We should head back to town."

"I doubt that will save us," he answered all too aware of distant hooves striking the earth behind them.

"Where to then?"

Peering through the suddenly deepening fog, Grissom pointed. "Here!" he shouted jumping over a fallen tree and ducking behind it, Brass sliding in next to him.

"You do know a tree isn't going to stop him," he said.

Grissom hastily nodded. "I know but I had to catch my breath."

"Out of shape are we?" Brass grinned when Grissom shot him an annoyed look.

"You didn't just nearly have yourself split in two," he harrumphed. "Thank you by the way."

"You're welcome," Brass acknowledged before holding a finger to his lips for quiet.

It was then they spied a white horse moving through the fog on the hill in front of them. Clear air seemed to expand around the animal, its eyes glowing as it snorted its displeasure. The horseman sat calmly on its back, the glow from his ax shining into the dark. He stared out at them, then around them, then behind them for a good five minutes before turning at some sound they couldn't hear and moving off into the wood. The two men dropped their heads to the log in relief.

"Hey, Jim?" came the whispered words.

"Yeah, Gil?" came the whispered response.

"Remember when you asked me to come with you to help your friend discover why all those odd things were happening in his town and I said yes?"

"Yeah, I remember that," Brass acknowledged.

"Well, I've changed my mind."

"Me, too."

"Let's go find the car."

Suddenly, air being sliced mere inches from their faces brought shouts from their throats as both leaped to their feet then backed up just as the glowing ax slashed through the log they'd been hiding behind.

"Jesus H . . !"

Brass's voice trailed off as, arms flailing, he grabbed onto Grissom and they both tumbled into the black night. Plummeting down a steep hill, they bounced and wailed and cursed and lost what little breath they had remaining until finally coming to a rolling stop on a hard cold surface.

Slowly taking stock of what still worked, Grissom groaned at the bruises and welts he could already feel rising all over his maltreated body and slowly placed both hands out flat to try and raise himself.

"Jim?" came out in a squeak when he dropped flat, his nose smacking against the asphalt.

Asphalt?

"Jim?" he tried a bit louder as he raised his head catching sight of the painted lines that would normally divide a modern highway.

"Car!" came Brass' excited voice. "Gil, the car!" he spit out rummaging through his pockets for the keys as he hurried across the road.

Managing to get himself upright, Grissom moved as fast as he could toward their salvation, glancing back to make sure the lines were still in the road before ducking into his seat, locking the door then clicking his seatbelt closed. He watched Brass insert the key, turn it and . . . nothing.

"You're fucking kidding me?" Grissom whined, rubbing at his shoulder then his neck and trying not to scream.

"It's all right. I've got it," Brass assured him trying again and getting the same result.

"Jim?"

"Just give me a minute, Gil."

"Jim?!"

"Come on, baby. Start for daddy," Brass urged over and over as he tried again.

"We don't have a minute!" Grissom shouted eyes locked on what was coming at them from up ahead.

"YES!" Brass yelled as the engine roared to life.

Putting it in gear, he slammed down on the gas, back wheels burning rubber, just as the horseman streaked past, the scratching of his ax along the paint setting their teeth on edge. Traveling down the road a few feet, Brass made a u-turn and stopped, eyeing the horseman standing in the road ahead, the two of them trading glares.

"Jim, what are you doing?" Grissom nervously asked.

"I'm going back to the airport and we're taking the first flight home."

"He's in the road."

"Yeah."

"This is no time to play chicken."

"We'll see."

Flooring it, the car launched forward just as the red-eyed horse began galloping toward them, the glow of the swinging ax very, very visible.

"Jim!"

"I've got it!"

"Do you know what the impact of a horse on this car will do?!" he yelled, one hand on the dashboard and the other wrapped about the grab handle over his head.

"Got a pretty good idea."

Opening then closing his mouth on his next retort, Grissom braced himself hoping the air bags worked in their rental car or this was really going to hurt.

Brass hunched over the wheel. "Come on, you bastard. I ain't flinching here. It's you or us."

Grissom eyed him but kept quiet, daring to look at the fast approaching horseman, ax swinging in the night air, wondering if he was ever going to wake up or would this be the end of things on this particular plane of existence.

The 'AHHHHHHHHH! that came out of Brass matched the maniacal look on his face and Grissom shrunk down further just as the horse leaped and the singing ax swung and he waited for a hoof to smash his head. But when they made contact, when the car struck the horse and rider and kept going, nothing deadly occurred. The horse and rider simply shattered, scattering in every direction by the displaced air of the speeding car. It took a good minute for Brass to quit yelling and for Grissom to start breathing again.

Easing his lead foot on the pedal, Brass pried his hands from the wheel before settling back in his seat. "_That's_ how you play chicken," he said, surreptitiously glancing in the rearview mirror before cracking a smile.

"We have to go back."

"I'm sorry?" asked Brass, leaning slightly toward Grissom. "Did you say something?"

"We have to go back."

Brass shook his head. "No. No we don't. We're going to the airport and flying home." Grissom grimaced. "What's that for?"

"Nothing," he answered shaking his head.

"Am I going to have to pull the car over again, Gil? You know that's what started all of this."

Grissom looked out the window then back to Brass. "We should go back just to . . . to make sure that we're . . ."

"Alive? In the present? Not rotting on the side of the road?"

Grissom nodded. "Something like that."

Brass blew out a breath then tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, rolled his eyes and pulled onto the side of the road.

"You know, you and I have done a lot of crazy things but turning this car around and heading back into that is foolish, unwise, idiotic and extremely and stupendously stupid."

"I know."

Brass stared at Grissom who gave him a weak grin then drummed all of his fingers on the wheel before moving the car back out onto the road and making a u-turn.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he chanted, heading back to where they'd escaped from, thinking this was the most brainless thing he'd ever done.

Silence reigned as they zipped past their last encounter with the horseman, then the original point when the car stopped and breathing resumed when they kept going. Soon they passed the 'Welcome to Sleepy Hollow' sign and followed the bend in the road, emerging onto a leaf littered street free of fog and full of antiquated street lights - ELECTRICAL street lights - that lit up the road and the touristy quaint buildings lining the main street.

"Starbucks," Grissom said with relief. "There's a Starbucks."

"And a Papa John's two doors down," Brass added. "We made it, Gil. We pulled a Marty McFly and made it back."

"And without a flux capacitor."

"Damn straight!" he said with a laugh as Grissom chuckled. "Hey, there's the hotel my friend told me about. You game to stay the night?"

"Why not?" he answered followed closely by a yawn. "At least if the horseman comes back I'll be warm and toasty."

"Don't even joke about such things," Brass gave him before turning into the hotel's parking lot and turning off the engine.

"We left our bags back . . . wherever we were," Grissom commented.

"Call me crazy but I'm gonna check anyway." Popping the trunk, Brass got out of the car, hesitated for a moment then pulled up the lid.

Groaning as he exited the car, Grissom slowly stood up straight, stopping when eyes settled on a definite scrape in the paint halfway through the back passenger door leading toward the tail light. Reaching out to touch it, air escaped him when a bag hit him full in the chest. Looking at it like it was a gob of spit, he glanced up as Brass approached, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"You know, my first impression that we were both unconscious and stranded on the side of the road would seem to be correct, hence our belongings."

"Really?" Grissom asked shouldering his bag. "In case you've forgotten there was this headless horseman with an ax who did this," he said pointing out the scrape.

Brass looked, pursed his lips then looked back. "I seem to remember a falling branch?" he lamely offered.

Grissom nodded. "And why can I barely move and you're limping?"

"I know this one. We're old farts?"

"Hmm," Grissom smirked. "Well, how about this," he said pointing toward both of their drenched and mud-caked clothes.

"Ah, we got lost?"

"We got lost all right," Grissom sighed. "Give me your gun," he ordered holding out his hand. Hesitantly, Brass complied watching as he ejected the magazine into his palm then held it up to eye level. "You're missing three bullets."

"I suppose saying over and over that we were passed out somewhere won't ever work." Grissom slowly shook his head. "I thought I'd try."

"Evidence abounds, my friend, of our little adventure no matter how fantastical."

Brass nodded. "So what now?"

"Well, we walk into that hotel, get room service, go to sleep, talk to your friend in the morning, see if we can help, then go home so I can snuggle up to my wife and wonder if I need to see a therapist or just watch a 'Walking Dead' marathon to put things in perspective."

Brass nodded. "Makes sense to me. Can we add on 'Fringe' to that marathon?"

Grissom smiled then started toward the hotel's entrance, Brass right next to him. "Why not. Do you think it would be too weird to watch 'X-Files' as well?" he asked as they pushed open the hotel's door.

"Not at all."

"It might rot our brains."

"I'm thinking that might've already happened, you know, with the ax and the horseman thing."

"True," he agreed just as his cell rang. "Grissom," he answered as Brass walked up to the redhead standing at the counter.

"Welcome to the Sleepy Hollow Inn," she brightly announced. "I'm Cassidy Phane. How may I help you?"

"Ah, did you say Phane?"

"Yes," she answered with a smile. "My family's lived in these parts since before the American Revolution."

"Is that fact?" he weakly said then cleared his throat. "Ah, do you have a reservation for Jim Brass?"

"Let me look. Yes. One room, two double beds. Will that work for you?"

"That would be fine." He picked up the offered pen then glanced over as Grissom approached. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Catherine called to tell me about a woman they found strapped to a chair with barbed wire, dressed in a Xena costume with a pumpkin shoved up her . . ."

"Here's your key, sir," the redhead said, hastily pushing it forward.

"Planning a haunted house costume party last minute is such a chore," Brass explained, her giggle making him grin as he followed Grissom toward the elevator, stepping inside as the doors opened. "Do you know what that redhead's last name was?"

"Phane," Grissom answered.

"How . . ."

"Her nametag." He glanced toward Brass and didn't say anything else.

"Okay," he said. "So what're we gonna tell people?"

"Well, we can't tell Catherine. She'll never let us go anywhere alone again."

"That's true. We probably shouldn't tell anyone. You know they'll never . . ."

"Hey, honey?" came from Grissom as he turned a coy grin on Brass, his cell clamped firmly to his ear. "You're never going to believe this but . . ."

"Except wives of course," he said, mostly to himself as the elevator doors closed.

* * *

_ The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead._

_It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always __burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell__._

_The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. __The __bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow_.

_~~ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Washington Irving, 1820_

_(The opening and closing paragraphs are reprints of the original "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow")_

* * *

_A thank you to Fox for their current edition of 'Sleepy Hollow' (some traits I swiped in case you couldn't tell). 'The Walking Dead' (AMC), 'Fringe' (Fox) and 'X-Files' (Fox) are mentioned. Starbucks and Papa John's get a shout out along with Tim Burton's 'Sleepy Hollow' and the original 'Back to the Future' characters Marty McFly and his flux capacitor._

_Historically, a Rattle Skull was a drink in the 1700's with the ingredients mentioned._

_And a thank you to Jocelyn Little of CSIFO for suggesting this challenge because it made me read the original 'Legend of Sleepy Hollow' (circa 1820) by Washington Irving, something I'd never done._

_So, even though we've passed into November I want to wish everyone a belated Happy Halloween and hope you had a ghoulishly good time. :-)  
_


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